


Restless Spirits

by SnowBarksAtMidnight



Series: Song of the Last Hero [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur is the Best Uncle, Dragons? Dragons., F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, In This House We Love and Respect Arthur Dayne, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Sassy Arthur, Sassy Jon, The Prince That Was Promised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-07 18:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowBarksAtMidnight/pseuds/SnowBarksAtMidnight
Summary: The mysterious beginnings of Jon Snow, beloved son, nephew, and one-day king.  Ned Stark's adventures in keeping a treasonous secret from nearly everyone.  Arthur Dayne's adventures in raising a sassy little shit.  Jon Snow living and growing in Winterfell, under the watchful eyes his Lord Father and Uncle Art.





	1. Bone Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, the second part is here! I hope you enjoy it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the first chapter of the next installment! Thanks so much for sticking with me! I appreciate all your support and kudos and comments (even though I am so bad at replying to them, but I read them all I swear)!

_ Jon’s Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC _

 

    Stars sparkle across the great black canvas of the Northern sky.  Their iridescent lights dance across the snow covered ground, twirling and shining over the white stage.  Snow softly drifts to the ground, carried by an icy, unforgiving wind. Unaffected by the harsh weather, Jon Snow fumbles towards the ancient crypts of Winterfell, his eyes staring forward, pupils hazy and unfocused, and his unsteady feet sliding on the frozen stone path.  He shivers as a chill dashes up his back. The wind wraps around him, ruffles his hair and pushes him forward, as if urging him closer to his destination. The scrape of his boots on the stone path is the only sound, but he looks over his shoulder anyway, unused to the silence.  He pauses for a moment and considers turning around and going to the Godswood instead, but he knows that not even the gods can hide him from what is to come. He sighs silently, going through the motion but consciously not making a sound, and continues towards his destination. 

    Torches now cast a warm glow across the alcove and Jon’s eyes flash a pale lavender briefly when he looks at them.  The crackle of the burning wood is almost deafening in the silence. Jon stops and stands just in front of the heavy wooden doors guarded by twin stone direwolves.  He waits in front of the beasts, eyeing them cautiously. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, his mouth suddenly too dry. Soon, he knows, they will come for him.  They will find him wherever he is, he knows. He has no choice but to face them.

    Seconds or hours later, the surrounding shadows begin to stretch across the ground, gnarled fingers reaching for him across the growing darkness, and the torches die with a nearly voiceless sizzle and the pungent smell of freshly burned ash.  The wolves begin to breathe, to move; where once there was stone patterning, there was now true fur, one russet and the other a nearly endless black. The wolves, almost as large as horses, shift their stances, claws and teeth growing. They shake themselves and turn their ice blue eyes towards the intruder.  They stalk towards him now, teeth bared in silent growls. As they begin to circle closer, Jon shrinks down into himself with his hands moving over his head. He trembles. As the wolves circle closer, tears stream silently down his face. He is shaking now, panicking. His breath is catching in his throat and he’s forcing himself to not make even the slightest sound, for fear of angering the beasts.  He is an outsider here and must prove something to them, though he doesn’t know what exactly; the wolves know this and will surely kill him if he fails to impress them. 

    Still, he refuses to make a sound, scared of startling the great beasts.  They come closer and closer, and he can feel the cold radiating off of them, leeching all heat from his body.  Unused to ever truly feeling the cold, he shivers violently.

    He startles awake, still in his own bed in Winterfell’s great castle, not outside near the ancient crypt.  He rubs his eyes harshly, trying to erase the dream from his thoughts. Vibrant colors flare on his eyelids from the pressure, but no amount of rubbing will wipe the dream away forever.  He knows that in a few days, or weeks, the dream will return. It always does. He doesn’t remember when he began having this dream, but he knows, as sure as his name is Jon Snow, that this dream will plague him forever.  He shivers; the bone deep cold from his dream has followed him to the waking world. This cold, Jon muses, is the only chill that has ever truly affected him. Perhaps this is a sign of his Stark blood, for he is unaffected by the snows of Winterfell and the North.

    He takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and strains his ears to determine if the rest of the castle is yet awake.  He hears the soft steps of the servants preparing for the day, so he rises from his bed and stretches lightly, like Uncle Arthur showed him weeks ago when he truly began his sword training.  It is much earlier than he usually wakes, and he knows that Uncle Arthur will question him about it if given the chance, but Jon will risk it because he cannot go back to sleep. He will not.  So he dresses in his black training leathers, a gift from Father but colored per Uncle Art’s insistence, and splashes some water on his face to chase the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

    He clutches the water basin, droplets streaming down his face, and stares hard at himself in the looking glass.  He avoids looking at his own eyes and instead stares at the light bruises around them, a sure sign of his poor sleep.  Today, Jon thinks, today I will prove myself to Uncle Arthur and he will be so impressed that he will make me his squire.

    And hopefully I will be too tired to dream this night, he thinks darkly.


	2. Familial Duties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A suspicious Arthur is an Arthur that makes Jon nervous.

_ Arthur’s Guest Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC _

 

Arthur Dayne wakes with the sun though he cannot see it, an unfortunate remnant of his time as a Gold Cloak.  He is too used to waking early and retiring late, though today the slight burning in his eyes tells him that he woke much earlier than usual.  He stretches his whole body before slipping out of bed. He readies quickly; he knows there is no hope of falling back to sleep, not after the dream he had.  Even after all these years, he is still haunted by Rhaegar’s ghost; he still remembers the curve of his jaw, the slant of his lips, the way his hair glowed near blindingly in the light of day.  The way his rare smiles burned as bright as the stars above. Arthur jerks his head, as if the action will rip all memories of the Silver Prince from his mind. He mentally braces himself and whispers a quick prayer, sure that he’ll need the gods help to survive this day.

        The only outward signs of his discomfort are the tightness in his chest and the deep, shuddering breath he takes to steady himself before leaving his room.  He spies a few servants slipping through the castle on nearly silent feet.

        He heads to the yard to begin his morning training, as he does every day.  As he wanders down the halls, he winks at a guard who reddens and scowls in response.  Arthur smirks to himself in amusement and continues on his way. He steals a roll from the kitchens with a quick smile of gratitude directed at the head cook, Gage.  Gage swats at him halfheartedly, well used to Arthur’s morning thievery by now. Arthur, despite being so obvious an outsider in the North, has nearly succeeded in befriending all the servants in the castle.  Gage, at least, is the most tolerable of Arthur’s antics. The guards, too, have grown used to his mild flirting, or at least have accepted that Arthur gains too much amusement from their reactions to ever change his ways.

        As he continues towards the yard, Arthur’s boots scrape softly on the stone path and he spies Septa Mordane ahead of him.  She sneers as he passes and he purposefully leers at the woman. Her eyes grow wide and she hurries away from him as quickly as she can without actually running.  The septa, of course, has stayed well away from him, most likely because stories of licentious Dornishmen. While he tries to at least keep up appearances, he prefers having the septa as far from himself, and Jon by extension, as possible.  Septon Chayle sees the exchange just as he leaves the sept himself. Arthur smirks at the man, crumbs on his lips and cheeks plumped up from his stolen meal, and throws him a jaunty wave, which the septon returns happily.

        He finishes the roll just as he ambles into the yard.  “Ser Rodrick, the gods smile upon us both today, it seems!”

Rodrick Cassel, the Master-of-Arms, rolls his eyes and returns Arthur’s greeting.  “I’ve beaten you here today, Ser. The boy beat you as well.” He cocks his head in the direction of Jon who is stoically working through his steps.  The stubborn, too serious expression on Jon’s face makes Arthur smile, a small bittersweet thing, and think of the She-Wolf. Jon’s melancholic nature may remind Arthur of the boy’s father, but his single-minded determination to master the blade is all his mother.

Arthur quickly rearranges his grin into something more cheerful before turning to Rodrick.  Of all the people in Winterfell, he respects Rodrick the most, for he has never once referred to Jon as ‘the bastard’ in Arthur’s presence.  Nor in Jon’s, he thinks, and the blatant kindness contradicting the Fish’s silent expectations brings Arthur no small amount of smug satisfaction.

“How long has he been here?” Arthur asks as he watches Jon run through his stances; the boy’s tongue is just starting to peak out of his mouth as he begins to move faster.

“Longer than I.  He was here when I arrived.”  Well, Arthur muses, that can’t be good.

Arthur grabs a practice sword, “I suppose I must perform my duties as uncle, then.”  And show him those openings, he thinks to himself. “We’ll spar later, aye?”

Rodrick looks upward, a long-suffering expression on his face, though Arthur can see mirth dancing in the man’s eyes.  “Aye, I’ll just put my affairs in order then, shall I?”

Arthur grins in response, a quick show of teeth that, had Rodrick not known the southren knight so well, would have sent the castellan running.  As it is, he only half-heartedly waves Arthur away before returning to his duties.

Arthur twirls the wooden sword as he ambles over over to Jon and catches the boy’s eye before lunging, sword held loosely in his hand and a wide grin on his face.  A small smile blooms on Jon’s face, Rhaenys’ smile. Rhaegar’s smile. A shadow crosses Arthur’s face quickly, but he chases it away for Jon. He will not be haunted by ghosts today.  He forces a reckless grin, but knows the emotion does not quite reach his eyes.

Jon notices, but does not comment.  At least, Arthur muses dryly, he’s learned feigned ignorance well enough.  A few years more and he might even give those vultures in King’s Landing a challenge.

“Uncle Art!” Jon says happily, arm dropping his arm to his side “Will we train together today?  I’ve warmed up already, can we start right now?”

“Raise your sword, Jon.”  Arthur moves languidly, more intent on correcting Jon’s movements than actually sparring.  “Come on, sword up, just as I taught you.”

As Jon begins to move, a look of fierce concentration on his face, Arthur responds just fast enough to push him, content with easing the boy into moving, thinking, and reacting faster.  They have time still for Jon to grow, though Arthur knows he’s been pushing Jon faster and farther than Ned would like. Jon, of course, readily soaks up whatever Arthur teaches him. Arthur realizes he’s been gawking now, but Jon doesn’t notice Arthur’s staring, too focused on not getting hit.  His tongue makes another appearance, his eyes focusing so intently on Arthur that he doesn’t notice it peeking out of his mouth. The She-Wolf’s obvious mannerisms appearing in her son helps to further loosen the knot in Arthur’s chest.

“You’re here earlier than usual, nephew.”  Arthur asks, intentionally trying not to sound too interested.  Jon, he knows, is much like a cat; you need to let him come to you.  Push him too hard and he will disappear, only to reappear at the most inconvenient of times.  “But then, so am I. I slept poorly, you see. Night terrors.”

Jon flinches and tries to quickly hide it.  Arthur notes this and then pretends to have missed it; his eyes sweep over Jon, cataloguing his nephews movements and making note of what to discuss with him later.  

“I went to sleep early yesterday,” Jon replies, avoiding Arthur’s probing eyes.  Ah, Arthur thinks proudly, I’ve taught you too well, nephew, if you can see through me this easily.  “And so I woke a little earlier than usual today, Uncle.”

Another nightmare, Arthur thinks.  “Hm, excited to train as well, I suppose.”

Jon flashes that all too familiar smile, the one that always brings a quick, stabbing pain to Arthur’s heart.  “Of course, Uncle! A squire should be dedicated to their training!”

“You’re right, of course.  And I suppose I should make note of this dedication of yours, then?  For the future, should I ever decide to take a squire.” Arthur teases with a sly grin.  “Come on then, I know you can do better than this.”

Arthur pushes harder, moves faster, and Jon rises to meet him.  A proud smile drifts lazily across Arthur’s face. Jon’s eyes brighten in return.  He’ll speak to me when he’s ready, Arthur thinks, but until then I will do my best to wear him out.  He smirks and darts toward Jon, tripping him up. As he helps Jon stand, he laughs at the look of contempt on the boy’s face.  The curve of the lip and the fire in his eyes are all the She-Wolf and such reminders of her always bring a genuine smile to Arthur’s face.  Jon, misinterpreting the laugh as a tease, rises quickly and readies himself for another bout. The She-Wolf’s determined look is reflected on her son’s face once again.  The knot in his chest loosens just a little bit more.


	3. Impossibly Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is hunted by restless dead.

_Jon’s Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC_

 

Once more, Jon stands in front of the two great wooden doors.  He knows, as he has always known, that he must continue onward.  A deathly silence surrounds him, the world so still that he’s sure the pounding of his heart must be audible.  Isn’t it odd, he thinks, this stillness? Where are Uncle Art and Father? Robb and little Sansa and Arya? There are no servants, either, no sounds of life.  There are swords on the ground too, shattered and broken with shards strewn everywhere. Cloaks, too, lay atop the snow, some torn and bloody. Jon cannot remember what happened here, but he knows that everyone else is gone.  He is alone. The silence is too much, maddening and aching and tears well up in his eyes, refusing to fall, and his throat hurts and his chest is too tight and he cannot mourn, not now. Winterfell is dead. Jon is the only one left.  Winterfell is dead. Only he walks the grounds and sleeps in the beds and prays in the Godswood and breathes the air. Only Jon alone lives and he must push forward. Winterfell is dead and he must move, else all is lost. So here he stands, facing the stone beasts, heart racing and blood rushing and breathing so shallowly that he might as well be holding his breath.

Again, the stone guardians come to life as the light dies and the shadows reach across the ground.  Their glacial eyes watch him carefully as they approach; they burrow deep into his soul, probing and gouging and leaving a hollow, near lifeless feeling in their wake.  Jon sinks into himself as the wolves circle closer and closer. He tries not to make any sound, but still hears the quiet huffs of his own breaths. The beasts must hear it too.  The shadows twist and stretch around their forms and Jon shivers violently from the harsh cold. He looks up quickly and startles; a wolf snarls at him, too close. He can’t breathe and the wolves are moving closer and he forces his eyes shut so tightly that he can see bright, colorful lights dancing across the endless black of his eyelids and the wolves are closer than ever now, he can smell the stone of their bodies and the earthen dirt on their fur and he doesn’t want to leave Uncle Art or Robb or Father or Sansa, already a little lady, or the little hellion Arya and he doesn’t want to die but he will if it will protect them, he swears he will.

Suddenly, the frigid cold lessens, but he can still feel the ghost of it in his bones.  He looks up just as the wolves settle in front of the doors once again. As one wolf returns to stone, the other still watches him, too-blue eyes piercing him, warning him, before returning to its sleep.  Jon is waiting, limbs still trembling, for what feels like hours. Finally, he inches forward and stops. The wolves do not reawaken. He shuffles forward slowly, watching for any movement. His boots scratch across the ground, the sound shattering the quiet, and Jon freezes, his eyes wide and his heart pounding, but the wolves do not wake.  He begins moving towards the doors again, so slowly that he can feel his muscles straining, urging him to move faster, but he won’t.

When he reaches the towering doors, he rests his palms on them and shoves with all his might.  The door creaks loud enough to wake the dead. He winces at the sound, hurries inside, and quickly shuts the door behind him.  He refuses to suffer the wolves again so soon. He rests against the doors for a moment, eyes closed, as he tries to take deep, calming breaths the way Uncle Arthur showed him once when the world and the noise and Robb and Lady Stark’s glares were too much.  He breathes deeply once more before opening his eyes and begins walking into the depths of the crypts. He stumbles over loose rocks and his eyes are darting around and he still isn’t breathing right but he keeps moving. He passes row upon row of severe stone faces in heavy crowns, hands clutching iron swords.  All are frowning at him. Nervously, he starts walking faster and faster until suddenly he is running down the long, poorly lit corridors, and his breaths are sharp and loud and he can barely see anything but he keeps moving forward. He hears whispers, now, coming from every direction. Some are soft, calling sweetly to him.  Come deeper, they sigh, down and down and down into the quiet, barren dark. Find us. Others are harsh screams for him to leave. He does not belong here, they howl. He knows this, but there’s something he must do. Something he must find, deep within the catacombs.

What light there once was is dying now and something is wrong with the air; it is too heavy.  He can’t breathe properly anymore, his chest is heaving and his throat aches, each breath brings a sharp pain with it, but still he runs onward.  The shadows are growing, and the air is thinning, and the cold is returning. This cold is wrong, different from before. It scares him. He has never felt a cold like this, a bone-deep chill that burns, somehow, burns his skin and his eyes and his lungs.  He can see his breath now, small puffs of white mist in the dying light. He wants to turn back, to find Uncle Arthur or Father. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, but the Winter Kings are behind him now, he knows they must be, he can hear the groaning of their dead limbs and the scrape of swords on the ground.  He runs and runs and runs, but they are still right behind him, getting closer and closer to catching him. And they will never let him leave.

He stumbles, startled, but regains his footing; he moves forward still, but slower now.  His ankle hurts, each step shooting a dull pain up his leg. One voice catches his attention, muted, and yet he can still hear it perfectly over the screams.  Soft and kind. Her voice is soothing, what he imagines his mother’s would have been like. It’s like Uncle Arthur’s voice, he realizes. The one he uses when he comforts Jon after Lady Stark or Theon or one of the servants says something needlessly cruel.  He has slowed his run, trying to find the voice, but it is all around him. Still, he does not understand what she is saying, her words to soft for him to understand. He turns and turns, more corridors appearing around him. He is not alone. The shadows are here with him and the Winter Kings are not far behind.  He can see outlines of their bodies in the shadows.

The kind voice sounds worried now and he’s panicking.  Corpses are lurching towards him, closer and closer, too-blue eyes piercing through the darkness.  These are not the Winter Kings, he thinks, they can’t be. These dead are cursed. They must be cursed.  I am not a Stark, he thinks, but I have Stark blood in my veins.  I belong here, same as you!   

The grotesque, twisted corpses keep moving towards him.  His eyes dart around wildly, looking for a gap in their ranks.  His heart will surely beat right out of his chest. They move ever closer, rotting bodies surging forward, hands clawing at his cloak.  The voice shrieks in his ears, “Ñuha trēsy, run!”.

Jon Snow wakes up in his little bed in a forgotten corner of Winterfell, chest heaving and sweat running down his face.  He remembers seeing eyes in dark sockets. Impossibly blue eyes, a blue so cold they burned, set deep in a dead man’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9/28/18 Edit to fix translation


	4. I Swear It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur does his best to comfort Jon.

_ The Godswood, Winterfell, The North, 291AC _

 

Arthur Dayne woke in a flash, limbs flailing in a way entirely unbecoming of a Kingsguard, phantoms still clinging to him, their bony fingers digging deep into his flesh.  Hunched over, he rubs his hands down his face and determines that he won’t be able to continue sleeping this night. He can’t. He stretches, muscles pulling and spine popping, to chase the sleep from his bones.  He groans, a low rumble from deep within his chest, before standing and splashing some night-chilled water on his face. He grips the edge of the stone bowl and leans so far forward that his forehead almost touches the looking glass.  After a few moments, he looks up and catches his own purple eye in the reflection. He scowls darkly before he turns away to dress. From the chill that has already set upon his room, Arthur knows that this day will be more ungodly cold than usual.  Days like this one make Arthur nearly regret ever leaving Dorne. Nearly. But then he thinks of Elia’s children, of Lyanna’s, and he knows that he will brave the seven hells themselves to protect Lyanna’s son. He failed Elia, but he will not fail Lyanna.  Not again.

And, Arthur thinks savagely, it’s not like he will ever be welcome in Dorne again.  Even traveling south of the Neck so soon after the war is an unneeded risk. The northmen are not the only ones with long memories.

Shaking his head lightly to chase away his dark thoughts, Arthur leaves his room.  The hall is even colder and, judging by the torches that still light the halls, it will be some time until the sun rises.  He strolls towards the kitchens, a daily routine for him now, and spies a new guard in the halls. Arthur slows, appreciates the man’s figure, before picking up his pace once more.  As he passes the guard, he turns to catch the man’s eye and smirks. He has to restrain his laugh as the guard quickly averts his eyes. For all the similarities between Dorne and the North, their reactions to his casual flirting are refreshing in its embarrassed acceptance, so unlike the disdain of the rest of Westeros.

As he continues his stroll to the kitchens, he sees movement in the corner of his eye.  It’s Jon, awake much earlier than usual; he’s crouched slightly, hunched over as if trying to protect himself.  He doesn’t notice Arthur, who abandons his original destination and begins to follow quietly. When Jon reaches the door leading to glass gardens and the Godswood, Arthur can’t quite catch the sigh that leaves him.  Like Ned, Jon finds solace with the silent weeping of the North’s gods. Unfortunately, for Arthur, the old gods dwell in the forest instead of a nice, warm sept. So he braces himself against the icy wind and continues after Jon, who marches quickly not to escape the cold, but to reach the solace offered by the gods.

When Arthur reaches the center of the Godswood, he stops shortly and smiles sadly.  Jon, he sees, is nestled against the Heart Tree like a scared child against their mother.  As much as he tries, as much as Ned tries, they cannot replace a mother’s love. And Lady Stark, Arthur snarls in his own mind, is no mother at all to Jon, who wants nothing more than a mother’s love.  Of all the people Arthur hates in this world, Catelyn Tully is in a constant battle for second with the ghost of a long dead man. He still remembers the sour look on her face when Ned presented Jon to her, the cold, hard look of a hatred so pure directed at a defenseless babe.  So much for Family, Duty, Honor, he had thought at the time. He still thinks such thoughts occasionally, when the Fishwife says or does something that makes the hard-won smiles on Jon’s face die.

He inches closer and Jon still has not noticed him.  After making a note to have the boy work more on his awareness, Arthur deliberately steps on a stick.  The crack echoes eerily across the grove, too loud in this sacred place. Jon’s head snaps up, eyes searching wildly until they land on Arthur.  He shrinks into himself and Arthur rubs the back of his neck in fake sheepishness. 

“I’m surprised to see you here, Jon,” Arthur says.

Jon stares at him in silence for a moment, melancholy eyes drilling into his soul.  “Why are you here, Uncle Art?”

Arthur moves forward languidly, “Why does anyone come to a sanctuary?”

“You don’t keep the old gods, Uncle,” Jon says, partly suspicious but mostly exasperated.  “You don’t keep any gods.”

Jon moves, making room for Arthur to sit next to him.  “Every knight swears their vows in front of the gods, Jon.”

“The old gods don’t ask for vows.  They don’t need them.” Jon’s sigh makes him sound put-upon, as if they’ve had this conversation before.  “And we are of the North, our way is the old way. Anyway, just because you swear them doesn’t mean you actually believe in the gods themselves.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “Since when are you so cynical, nephew?  And the mysterious old way, huh? You know, I’m starting to think that’s just something you northerners say when you don’t want to explain something.”

Jon laughs quietly in response.  His shoulders relax and he leans into Arthur’s side.  The two sit quietly for a time, both lost in their own thoughts.  Jon, Arthur thinks, is too young to be so serious. He wants to blame Rhaegar, but even the Dornish know that bastards grow quicker than true-born children.  And despite his best efforts, Jon has always been the melancholy sort. Thankfully, much of his dour disposition is false, a mask to hide his thoughts. As much as Arthur wishes it unnecessary, he knows that being able to hide his emotions can only help Jon in the future.

Jon shifts, drawing Arthur’s attention.  “Uncle Arthur? What does ‘Ñuha trēsy’ mean?”

Arthur looks at Jon, brows raised in surprise.  “Where did you hear that, Jon?”

While he knows that Jon has been learning other languages at his insistence, he knows his nephew well enough to know that Jon would never think of delving into a language that Arthur himself has not yet truly spoken of.

“Just in a dream I had, once.  But what does it mean?”

“My son,” Arthur replies, voice soft and mind racing.  Where could he have heard such a thing here, he thinks.  “It means ‘my son’ in Valyrian.”

“Oh,” Jon says.  He’s quiet for a moment.  “Uncle Arthur?”

Arthur shifts against the Heart Tree and hums in response.  “You won’t ever leave me, will you?”

Arthur pauses in mild shock.  He glances at Jon before ruffling the boy’s hair.  “I would never, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Instead of his usual bluster in the face of Arthur’s rare seriousness, Jon leans further into Arthur’s side.  His smile is small, but his relief is evident all the same. A tinge of sadness grows in his smile.

In a soft voice, Jon says, “Winter is coming, Uncle Arthur.”

“Aye, Jon.”  Arthur responds.  “And the night is darkest just before dawn.”

For a while, the two stay there underneath the Heart Tree, side by side.  The quiet and serene calm chases the shadows from both their minds. Someday, they will both have to face these shadows, but for now, they sit together under the great red canopy until the sun rises.


End file.
